Passive
by Mei Syndrome
Summary: Even when he resists, he is passive. Japan/China, one-shots and drabbles.
1. Passive

The hand that strokes his cheek is soft and smooth, lingers there briefly before moving to his hair, and his fingers run through the short, dark hair. He shivers, hates the affection. He isn't used to it, doesn't want it. He is more used to force and authority - like Ludwig. But he sighs, and presses against the other man for a kiss.

Even _he_ is soft and unyielding, goes along with the movements, offering no resistance. It isn't until his hand is pressed against where his heart is does he fell those same gentle hands grasp his wrist, stopping him. But even when he resists, he is passive.

He gives a low growl, presses harder into the kiss, bites an pulls at the lower lip until he can taste blood, and - _finally_ - Yao gives in, fights back, and now his fingers are talons around his wrist, drawing blood with blunt nails. Honda groans at the pain, and Yao bites him in the same punishing manner. Honda gives another growl, manages to rip his wrist away, and grasps at Yao's waist through the thin fabric of his clothes before pushing him backwards onto the bed, tumbling after him.

There is always an element of barely-restrained violence - the Immortal and his protege, both vying for absolute dominance. Honda doesn't understand why Yao always lets him win - amusement, perhaps. But even so, Honda takes advantage. He bites, and leavings damning marks, the faint shadows of fingers around the others pale throat, scratches down his back and chest that bleed sluggishly, black and blue and purple bruises. And during all of it, Yao endures, even though there are the echoing screams that drift down the hallways like ghosts.

And at the end of it, when the two are lying side by side, Yao pulls Honda into a slow kiss - strangely intimate for Honda - before breaking it and raising Honda's hand to his cheek. He holds it there for a moment, before turning his head to brush his lips across the palm, and then gently bites at the crescent marks on Honda's wrist, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

Honda averts his gaze, because he knows that he has simply given Yao was he wanted.

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My new OTP. Yay. Review, please.


	2. Debase

First, a word from Mei.

.destiny: Thank you so much. Really, it was reading your two China and Japan-centric fics that got me into this pairing, ohoho. And of course I'll continue writing this pairing! I love it so much - so much history between the two, raaaagh.

Olivia Odyssey: Hehe, glad that you liked it! I find it a little hard to write fluff for these two, which is why is tends to come out so. . .well, abusive. Ehe. But anyway, I'm glad that you like it.

READ ON!

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_de__base /d__ɪˈ__be__ɪ__s/ Spelled Pronunciation [di-beys]  
–verb (used with object), -based, -bas__ing.__  
1. to reduce in quality or value; adulterate: They debased the value of the dollar.  
2. to lower in rank, dignity, or significance:_

The way Honda's hands run over his chest makes the older man shiver, makes his back arch in pleasure, and makes him cry out. But there are times when it is not Honda's name, and the only response from him is a tightening of the hands around his neck. Honda can never understand why Yao always looks at him in such a serene manner - and he simply wants to knock away the look on that face and. . .

"Mmn. . ."

The Chinese man arches underneath his fingers once more, and Honda allows himself a small smirk on his normally impassive face. It pleases him that he can make him moan and cry in such a wanton manner. It makes him proud, to know that he can reduce this - this _God_ to such a state. Honda stops his touches, hears a small whimper at the lack of contact, and turns to find the red armband - a keepsake from his Communist days. He undoes the red fabric, and wraps it around Yao's throat. And still, he stares with impassive eyes, a small smile lifting his lips.

To Yao, giving himself up to Honda like this is a rather mocking act - he acknowledges Honda's superiority, knows that no matter what he says that Honda would take him either way. He knows that the Japanese man needed no consent. But at the same time - that he gave up so willingly. . .Always, after their acts, there is a slight smile on his lips - slow, sensual, mocking, accepting and relieved, and loving.

"Do you want it?" Honda hisses, leaving the scarf around his neck for now, and instead, brushed his hands against the smooth thighs, and then lifted the legs so they were around his waist, and he feels them tighten, pulling him closer.

"Yes, yes, Honda, aru."

It's nice to hear him plead like that.

And as usual, there is the slight gasp of pain from the man underneath, and Honda pulls at the red scarf, tightening it around his neck, and Yao's breath catches in his throat. The thrusts are fast, hard, and rough - just as usual, and Yao is accustomed to them, and he agrees, goes with it willingly, urges Honda on.

As their game continues, Honda tightens the scarf around Yao's throat, and he recognizes the dazed, glazed look in the immortal man's eyes, and knows that it would only be a little more until he would be tipped over the edge. The Chinese man is unusually silent tonight - only small pants and mewls, the occasional moan. This frustrates Honda, and he tightens the scarf even further, hears Yao choke slightly, but knows that the man wouldn't pass out - he is too careful to let that happen.

Faster and faster, harder and harder, and everything between them escalates and Yao wants to cry from it all - the shame, the guilt, the pleasure and -

"Honda!"

It's a near scream, and his back is arching off of the bed, and Yao closes his eyes as a kaleidoscope explodes in and around him, the lack of oxygen heightening everything, and his arms are scrabbling down Honda's back, causing bloody and red scratches. And oh, Gods, suddenly, the Chinese man is shockingly tight, and even he can't hold back, and his face twists into pleasure and his hands tighten the scarf once more, and he wants to hear his name like that - just like that, again and again. . .

He collapses onto Yao's body, not bothering to pull out quite yet, and ignores the sticking feeling between their stomachs. He shifts his position, glances at Yao - sees that he is completely relaxed, that serene look on his face once more, that smile. . .The only thing that betrays him is the quick, shallow breaths, and he is not sure as to whether it's from the scarf cutting off his oxygen, or from the games that they play. But he quickly removes the red scarf from around his throat, and instead, ties it around Yao's naked arm. He hears what might have been a laugh, and feels a hand run briefly through his hair.

Despite all of this, Yao still feels like the immortal - the God - that he is, no matter what Honda attempts to do.


End file.
